the Beast by the Sea
by theKeeperofMemories
Summary: There is a beast in the sea, and Alfred, a warlock, plans to raise it from its slumber. Feliciano, a merman, just wants to visit land, he didn't intend to get engaged instead. Meanwhile, Arthur the angel is trying to get back to heaven, Matthew the demon is trying to get back to hell, and Antonio the Hunter just wants to know who exactly was killing off the faeries.
1. Prologue

**Hello, all! Welcome to 'the Beast by the Sea'! This story was made as per a request. It was supposed to be a one-shot, but somehow, the chapter right here is only the prologue. Oops. Either way, thank you for reading, and please review!**

* * *

 **The Beast by the Sea**

 **Prologue**

It began, like many things, in the sea.

In this world ruled beneath the iron fist of mankind, only in death or in the sea was any creature truly free.

Although, to be honest, that was an overstatement. In death, there was Heaven or Hell, both of which had their own unique laws, enforced to varying degrees of strictness by two completely different entities. In the sea, there were the mermaids.

Merpeople, actually. The term 'mermaids' is rather feminist.

The point is that no matter where you were in the world, whether you were in the sky or underground, you would always be in the territory of some kind of creature. What set the merpeople apart, however, was that the entirety of the ocean was theirs, and the ocean was the most mysterious thing of this world.

Mystery breeds curiosity, and curiosity killed the catfish, which was the excuse Feliciano planned to use if anyone found him here. It was partly true too, which was sad because Feliciano had really liked that catfish, and it had been a very bad idea to let his pet catfish come out of its freshwater tank.

Either way, if anyone caught him wandering closer and closer to the surface of the sea, he would tell them that he was trying to find a good place to bury Gino.

At sixteen years old, Feliciano was still two years too young to leave the sea. He couldn't even if he wanted to. To leave the sea and visit land, walk amongst humans on two legs, a merperson would need a _kordevo_ —a ceremonial knife that you received only when you come of age. Each _kordevo_ was unique to each merperson, and would only work for its chosen master.

Feliciano could not wait though. Unlike his brother, who was content to stay forever in the deep sea, Feliciano wanted nothing more but to leave. He constantly wandered close to the shallow waters, trying to catch a glimpse of the world beyond the sea.

And it was this burning desire to explore that brought him here, amongst the jutting rocks and gaping caves. It was midnight, and the tide was reaching its highest. During the day, some of these caves would actually be above the tide, often acting as a brief campout spot for any kids looking for some fun. As a result, there were sometimes strange discoveries done here. Feliciano had once found an entire ham sandwich which the fish were just beginning to tear at.

Today, he was scavenging in these caves as well. He had just discovered a pretty hairpin and was trying to clip it in his short hair when he heard a distant call.

Feliciano froze. It did not seem to have come from the outside, but from deeper in the cave. When the cave entrance was not submerged, the cave led to a short tunnel that ended with a huge lake. Underwater, however, these were a series of caves and tunnels that, even after so many trips, Feliciano had not finished exploring.

The sound came again, a haunting, faraway echo that tugged at the edges of his mind, as if the sea was urging him deeper into the cave.

So Feliciano abandoned the hairpin and headed into the darkness.

The water grew gradually colder as he swam deeper into the tunnel. The sound was coming constantly now, a distant whisper vibrating the stone walls. It sounded rather familiar, as a matter of fact, and as he followed it further, he realized what it was.

All creatures of the sea knew it. Every merchild knew, and Feliciano was as familiar to this tune as he was to his brother's voice.

 _The Beast by the Sea._

It was a deceptively cheerful tune with a haunting and serious undertone. Though the echo only seemed to be repeating the song, Feliciano found himself unconsciously humming along, his lips forming the words of the story.

 _"She was a child of fire,  
And he was of the sea.  
And the heavens met the ocean  
Beneath the myrtle tree…"_

The legend was just as familiar. It was the love story between the Firebird and a sea dragon—both of which had been extinct for long enough that most creatures in the world no longer believed that they had ever existed. Their love, as most stories went, was forbidden, and so they had been brutally wrenched apart, locked in their separate prisons.

 _"Amongst the roaring tempest,  
Over the roiling sea,  
The Law vowed that the lovers  
Never again shall meet…"_

The sound was no longer an echo. It seemed to come from the walls all around him, vibrating through the waves and pushing him onwards through tunnels he had never noticed before, let alone have explored.

 _"And many years she waited,  
Inside her cage of gold.  
Her songs faded to echoes,  
Her beauty myths of old…"_

Feliciano was undoubtedly nervous. His heart seemed to pound in beat to the tune, but he continued on. He could not turn away even if he wanted to. It wasn't just his burning curiosity; there was something inside of him that seemed to have taken over his body. He felt almost entranced as he was drawn towards the source of the tune.

 _"But his body they had buried  
Beneath a tomb of stone.  
His sleeping soul encompassed by  
Its prison of bare bones…"_

The song ended there. Rather abruptly and hastily, Feliciano thought, though he could not imagine anything more to add onto the tale. The two lovers have been locked up in their separate jails—there were seldom happy endings to these stories.

Overhead, Feliciano suddenly noticed a faint glowing. Despite his natural night vision, light had been so effectively cut out in the tunnels that he had resorted to swimming inch by inch with a hand trailing against the thrumming stone walls. The newfound light was welcome, and he gave a burst of speed forward, following the light to lead him as the song continued to hum around him.

He rounded a corner, and the narrow tunnel gave way suddenly to a brightly lit chamber. The circular stone walls and arching ceiling was covered in glowing moss, but the floor seemed to made of a crystal that caught the light and reflected it back all around, making the cave brighter than usual.

Embedded in the walls, covered by a fine layer of underwater moss, were twisting skeletons overlapping and pressed against each other. He spotted the remains of a twisting shark, its jaws gaping wide; there was a part of the ribcage of a whale jutting out and arching down from the stones, and pressed against the surface of the ceiling was—to Feliciano's horror—the skeleton of a merperson, its tail straining and hands outstretched as if it was trying to swim away.

Morbidly curious, Feliciano entered the chamber, staring wide-eyed at the collection of bones, all of which glowed faintly, the light enhanced by the smooth crystal floor.

As Feliciano's eyes further adjusted to the brightness, he suddenly noticed a shadow on the bottom of the cave, stretched across the floor. Cautiously, he swam down closer to examine it, and realized that the figure was not _on_ the floor, but _in_ it. The crystal was transparent, and hidden beneath it was a body.

At first, Feliciano thought it was a woman; the delicate features and long, dark hair certainly gave a more feminine first impression, but the structure of the body was most definitely male. The figure was clad in a simple yet elegant robe, feet bare and hands crossed on his chest. The person looked incredibly peaceful, and even in death, there was a hint of color to his complexion, as if blood still flowed steadily through his veins.

There were words carved onto the crystal as well, which Feliciano did not notice at first because they were faint and difficult to read. But scrawled on the crystal right above the person's face were two words:

 _THE BEAST_

Underneath it were more words, smaller, yet carved with more grace. It looked like a poem, but as the echoing tune continued to pulse around him, Feliciano realized that it was something more.

 _"But for a pinch of stardust,  
And a tendril of the sun,  
A silver chip of moonlight—  
Or forever he'll sleep on."_

A final stanza to the children's song.

It all felt rather surreal, Feliciano thought as the song repeated, and he mouthed the words in tune to the echo. There was still no clear source of where the sound came from, though it was the loudest in this chamber—this tomb.

And the question still remained, why? This was not the first time Feliciano came to explore the caves, but this was the first time he heard the song and found this chamber. And the final stanza of the song: what did it mean? What was its purpose? And who was this stranger buried beneath a layer of crystal, in this massive cave?

Feliciano couldn't help but stare at the person, as if he would be able to give him answers. He examined the delicately arched eyebrows, the elegant cheekbones and slant of the nose, the pale lips—pinched together in a subtle grimace as if he was in pain.

The longer he stared at the person, the less dead he seemed. He could almost imagine a flutter of dark eyelashes as the person dreamed. He couldn't look away, past those ugly, condemning words carved over the surface of the person's tomb: _THE BEAST_.

The beautiful stranger slumbered on in death.

And in his uncovered neck, pale and long, a pulse jumped.

* * *

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	2. Open the Gates

**Chapter One: Open the Gates**

" _…ever since the remains of several individuals—now confirmed by the police as Mister and Missus Brown, along with their six-year-old son Mark Brown—were discovered on Crescent Beach, attacked and devoured by mermaids, riots and protests have begun all over the United States petitioning for stricter mermaid laws and regulations… The petition has been approved and passed by the Congress, marking the beginning of a new era._ "

"A new era indeed," cackled a young man sprawled across the couch. He watched the news reporter ramble on, a beer in one hand, the other running through his shock of white blonde hair. He had a cruel face, punctured by a wicked grin and amusement in his dark eyes as he watched a man dominate the television screen, protesting,

" _Merpeople do not deserve to be discriminated against as such! The murders were the works of_ sirens _, not the merpeople!_ "

" _And what is the difference?_ " demanded somebody in the background.

" _Sirens are terrorists!_ " the man—a merman, evidently—shouted back. " _They do not belong to our kingdom, they are unlawful creatures—_ ,"

The young man snorted. "Loads of bullshit, eh? Ludwig?"

Ludwig, a solemn young man sitting silently in a nearby armchair, nodded in agreement. "DNA testing had shown that mermaids and sirens are literally the same species."

Ludwig, like his brother, had a beer in one hand and was occasionally taking sips from it; but unlike his brother, his posture was perfect as he listened raptly to the television's continued report.

" _…has decided to further regulate the flow of mermaids visiting land—_ "

"More forms to fill out, identification, visas, blah, blah, blah." The pale-haired young man rolled his eyes, taking another deep swig of his beer.

"Gilbert, be quiet."

Gilbert sat up suddenly. "You know, Ludwig, I don't think this is really fair." He pointed his beer can towards the television, which now depicted crowds of merpeople—those currently on land—filling out forms and standing in line to receive their new I.D.s that all merpeople on land were required to hold onto at all times. "I mean, they're giving all the credit to the congressmen and government and whatnot, but it's really _us_ who managed to accomplish this, wasn't it? If we haven't protested, the merpeople are only going to get bolder and kill more people. The government wouldn't change anything if we haven't protested."

"You also have to take in account the sheer mass and scale of the protest," Ludwig reminded Gilbert. "And things got violent."

Gilbert grinned wolfishly. "It's not radical enough until a man dies."

Ludwig shook his head exasperatedly. "Those creatures should just stay in the sea."

"Can't resist the taste of human blood." Gilbert finished his beer, setting down the empty can and crossing to the fridge for another one. "They never can. Funny, isn't it?"

Ludwig also set down his beer, though he hadn't finished. He was frowning at the television, but did not seem to be paying attention now to what it was saying. "Funny how the prey now runs the kingdom."

* * *

Arthur Kirkland had _one job_.

This was the problem with having one, very unsteady, low income job: you lose it, you lose everything.

And not just everything, because his job wasn't just a _job_ , it was also tied to the intricate, secret angel laws of Heaven, and so not only was he jobless, he was now also a criminal because his job, however insignificant it was, was somehow deeply rooted with the Law. He knew this very clearly, as it was on the contract he had signed for the job and his boss reminded him constantly about the importance of secrecy regarding this job, but it was quite difficult keeping secrets when you were drunk off your ass, as Arthur learnt the hard way.

He got drunk, he blabbed, he broke a Law, and now he was fired, with his measly possessions in a bag slung over his shoulder, standing in front of the Gates of Heaven. Actually, the Gates of Heaven had not been opened in a very long time, ever since the Elevator of Heaven was built. So Arthur stood in front of the golden Elevator doors, eyeing the single shining button rather nervously.

The doorman was reading from his file, " _…minor offense of the Law. Sentence: exile to the human world_. Huh. That's not too bad."

"Is it now?" Arthur asked wearily.

"Nah, you're not getting kicked into Hell. Now _that_ would be bad. The human world is no biggie. You've got a chance of coming back, at least."

"Really?" Now Arthur was interested. "How?"

The doorman shrugged. "No idea. No one has come back yet, at any rate."

"That's comforting to hear," grumbled Arthur as the doorman handed back his form. He pressed the golden button behind him, and then turned back to Arthur.

"Now, let me go over the basic procedure of the Fall for you. Once you enter the Elevator, pull the lever, which would bring you into the Seelie Court underground—"

"I thought I was going to the human world?" Arthur was confused, and also blatantly ignored.

"—where the Gatekeeper will guide you to your next stop, which is the human world. Make sure to keep a hand on your form and to make sure which door exactly that the Gatekeeper is sending you through. Faeries aren't fond of angels, and there have been cases where the Gatekeeper 'mistakenly' sends an angel to Hell. They cannot lie though, so as long as you phrase your question correctly, you should be alright. Ready?"

"No."

The elevator chimed its arrival, and the golden doors slid apart.

"Have a nice Fall!" the doorman called cheerfully as the doors closed behind Arthur. For a moment, all was silent—they haven't installed elevator music in here yet. Then, Arthur sighed, and closed his hand around the lever in the Elevator.

With a deep breath, his heart pounding violently, Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled the lever.

* * *

"I'm sorry sir, but without your I.D. card, I cannot let you pass."

Matthew Williams was _screwed_.

"But I lost my I.D. card. Is there any way I can—"

"I'm sorry sir, but it is protocol. I simply cannot let you pass without your I.D."

"But—"

"Now, if you'd please," the lady gave him a sympathetic smile that only barely concealed her irritation, "Try again when you've found your card."

Recognizing defeat, Matthew turned and left. Nobody noticed him as he pushed through the restless crowds and out the Otherworld Embassy.

Ran by faeries, the Otherworld Embassy was the only place where people could pass into other realms such as Heaven, Hell, or Faerieland. Though why humans allowed the Embassy to be organized by faeries instead of themselves, Matthew was not sure. Maybe it was the fact that faeries cannot lie—always an appealing trait—or maybe simply because all Gates lead to Faerieland.

The only Other creatures that did not need to pass through the Otherworld Embassy inspections were the merpeople, who had their own organization regulating their flow. Of course, that had not been the case until a year ago, when stricter laws prohibiting easy travel for merpeople onto land were passed.

With the creation of the Oversea Embassy, Hunters were also dispatched to the Otherworld Embassy to keep a closer eye on the rest of the Other population. Unfortunate, really. Dealing with faeries was annoying enough; humans were incapable of anything other than make a situation worse.

Sighing deeply, Matthew looked down at the folder in his hands. Inside were his forms, applying to visit land and the contract that he would be back before a certain date.

Travel to and from Hell was very strictly regulated. Stereotypes against demons had already made access from Hell extra difficult, and it was only after much negotiation between ambassadors of Satan, Hell's dictator supreme, and humans that demons were able to gain that measly right, something all other creatures already had access to.

To be honest though, many demons found the human world somewhat disappointing in the sense that it wasn't too different from Hell. Demons still had to carry around I.D. cards at all times, and you were so carefully watched by everyone who had identified you as a demon that it was just like the All-seeing Eye of Hell.

The only difference was that there was an exhaustive amount of forms to fill out in order to go anywhere in the human world. In fact, you needed to have a specific reason to leave Hell, and ' _vacation_ ' would never pass even the first checkpoint. There was also a time limit in the human world, since you needed a visa to pass, of course, and if your visa expired before you've reentered Hell? You are _screwed_.

And this ' _screwed_ ' wasn't just about politics or security. It was a matter of life and death.

The meticulous organization of the faeries meant that they would definitely know if you outstayed your VISA, and when that happened, your picture would be sent to the Hunters, a group of specially trained humans who, true to their name, would hunt you down. The policy was that after being caught, the wayward demon would be sent back to Hell. Unfortunately, not all demons would survive the hunt.

Matthew's visa would expire in a week.

Which wasn't too bad, all things considered. The only problem was that Matthew had been fruitlessly searching for his lost I.D. card for over a week now and he was running out of money.

If he didn't get back to Hell soon, he might actually die. Not just because of the Hunters, because although problematic, he wasn't particularly worried about them (twenty percent of all hunted demons die, which was mild considering that there was a forty percent chance of death in Hell even if you were only walking down the street. It was called Hell for a reason). He was more worried about the investigation.

Matthew had managed to slip into the human world by explaining that he was looking for a long-lost half-brother—because of course, the one time his dad left Hell, he had to get some poor woman pregnant. The only problem (that he failed to mention to the Hell guards) was that Matthew's father was dead, and he had no idea who his half-brother was. There was no name, no picture, not even the gender was for certain. All he knew was that his half-siblings was a warlock or a witch, as it were for all spawns of a demon and a human.

Sure, he had definitely gone looking around for his half-brother; he just didn't try very hard. In fact, he practically made no effort at all, and that would be uncovered if they investigated his footsteps, and deceiving the government could be punishable by death.

If he had even visited _one_ warlock or witch in the past three weeks, he might be able to receive some leniency.

He had one week left.

Matthew whipped out his phone and searched, _'warlock services.'_

According to the app he was using, the closest item related to his search was a place called 'Life and Liberty: Services of Warlock Alfred F. Jones.'

Smiling grimly, Matthew began his hunt.

* * *

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	3. The Threads that Bind

**This was supposed to be a short chapter, but then it turned out... not so short.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two: The Threads that Bind**

Feliciano knew that the waiting was going to be bad, but he didn't realize that it would be _this bad_. It had been two weeks. Two weeks of sitting around, twiddling his thumbs, wondering whether or not his form would be approved, if _Romano's_ would be approved, if he would have to go alone or maybe he wouldn't be able to go at all—

 _Stop._ He needed to stop. He needed to stop obsessing over land, stop worrying about the forms, stop stressing out over things he couldn't possibly control. Over and over, Feliciano told himself to calm down, to find something useful to do, but his mind kept drifting back towards land.

Romano was unsympathetic. One year older than Feliciano, he had come of age last year, but had waited the fourteen months for his younger brother so that they could visit land together. He never actually wanted to though, was never really curious about the world outside the sea, so in a way, Feliciano was dragging him into this.

It'd be worth it though, Feliciano was sure. They would go on land, and they would be dazzled, and Romano would regret ever hesitating to come on shore with him.

But none of this would matter if they didn't even _get_ the chance to go onto land. Despite others' constant reassurances that Feliciano and Romano's forms were simple and innocent-looking enough and would most likely pass the examination, he couldn't stop _fearing_.

"You need to _calm down_ ," Romano said, rolling his eyes.

"I can't!" cried Feliciano.

"It's okay, Feli," his grandfather tried to comfort him. "Even if you get rejected this time, there's always next time."

"Two months!" Feliciano sobbed, because if your form was rejected you had to wait at least two months before you could apply again. "I won't be able to survive two more months!"

"Which is why you should calm down," Romano deadpanned.

"I can't!"

Romano threw his hands in the air. "You know what? You need some relaxation therapy classes. Go sing a few happy songs, take a nice hot bath, smoke some seaweed, I don't care! Just relax! Calm down!"

But he couldn't.

He spent the entire weeks high-strung and irritable, prone to sudden breakdowns and being utterly overdramatic. Romano had taken to avoiding him at all costs, just so he didn't have to "listen to you whine your ass off."

Hmph. As if. Feliciano didn't whine.

"You need to get a life," Romano told him, before fleeing the room that Feliciano had just entered.

The morning of the last day of the dreadful two weeks, Romano stomped into Feliciano's room before the younger merman had woken up. He slapped a crisp envelope onto his younger brother's face, effectively rousing him.

"Ow…"

"There," Romano gestured imperiously. "Letter. Open it, and finally _calm the fuck down_."

Feliciano was awake in an instant and ripping open the envelope in the next.

"Well?" Romano demanded as Feliciano furiously read, "What does it say?"

Despite the slight annoyance and indifference in his voice, his posture was tense and his brows were drawn together worriedly.

Feliciano did not reply immediately. He continued rapidly skimming through the letter, until the very end where—

 _"…you have been approved to go onto land_! Yes!" Feliciano whooped, flying out of bed and mauling into his brother, trapping him into a tight hug. "We're going on land!"

"Yeah, yeah." Romano rolled his eyes, but there was a wisp of a smile on his lips as he patted Feliciano on the back. "Let me go. You're suffocating me."

"Sorry." Feliciano released his hold, but was still grinning widely, giddy with excitement.

They were going on land.

* * *

Arthur realized that there was really nothing wrong with the human world, other than the fact that everything was so… human. Temporary. Mortal.

Which was to be expected, of course. He didn't expect it to be like Heaven, with its pure white and gold buildings and silver-lined roads, glimmering spirits milling around as angels swooped overhead, doing their part of running the Heavenly society the way they had done since the moment they were created.

Nothing but a servant: that was what Arthur had been in Heaven. Angels served the humans and God, satisfying their every need, entertaining them, making sure that Heaven was up to their expectations. Always serving, never resting, in a constant, never-changing world.

Well, currently, in the human world, Arthur was a waiter, so he was still serving people, though at least he no longer slept in a cage. But unlike in Heaven, when he wasn't in his work uniform, he wasn't marked out by his halo and wings. He was just another person in the streets, hurrying somewhere, living his own life.

The only thing he really missed about Heaven was flying. Somewhere in the process of Falling, he had lost his wings, and when he realized that he couldn't summon them anymore, the blow was harder than he had ever imagined.

And also magic. His powers. In Heaven he had been able to shapeshift into anything he needed to be: a wolf, to hunt; a dog, to be petted. Hell, even a dragon, to be marveled at. His entire career had rotated on his abilities, and now, he was nothing more than an immortal human.

Was he still immortal though? He didn't know.

Regardless of these losses, Arthur found himself enjoying the human world from time to time, but something—and he wondered if the feeling would ever fade—always drew his eyes back towards the sky, where Heaven was hidden somewhere. He was content here, yet something called him back, called him to return. Something, he realized later, akin to guilt.

It made sense, strangely enough.

He lost his job, was banished from Heaven—his fault. But he had left a bit of a catastrophe back in Heaven, and the pure, angelic part of him begged him to fix it, to return and make it right, even though he knew that there wasn't really anything he could do.

There was a way home, the doorman had said as much. But how?

Once again, Arthur found his gaze wandering back towards the sky, observing the clear, solid blueness and the clumps of white drifting past this perfect canvas.

Redemption? Do enough goodness, and you would be allowed passage back to Heaven? Possible, yet at the same time, Arthur wasn't sure. He wondered if there was some way to forcibly return to Heaven and fix his past wrongs, if he could blast open the Gates of Heaven.

Wryly, Arthur was suddenly reminded of the Dragon. A myth even older than him, it was said that a Dragon slept by the sea, and when he woke, all doors would be opened for him to reclaim his love, the Firebird. And since allegedly, the Firebird was trapped in Heaven, the skies would be blasted right open, and the lovers would be reunited.

 _The Firebird._ Arthur's gut clenched.

If he never saw a Firebird again, he would be the happiest creature alive.

* * *

This was how the Rise worked:

Great, empty chambers filled with nothing but air and a layer of water covering the floor so that merpeople would have better ease of movement upon entering, enchanted so that the crushing ocean water could not sweep in.

A sacred, enchanted blade, the _kordevo_ , laced with ancient spells of transformation and dipped in potions of making.

There is no pain like the pain of transformation, when a mermaid drives her _kordevo_ into her tail and cut open her skin to find a mortal body beneath.

The song rose around them like a torrent, terror in each note, anticipation in each breath. Even as blood pooled around Feliciano, he kept the song steady. _The power of a mermaid lies in her song_ , his grandfather had told him. It was this song, this ancient song entwining with the blade, that would tear his tail into legs, forming his limbs so that he could walk. Should the song fail, he would never heal from the cut, simply left to bleed out in this chamber, a mess of scales and half-formed limbs.

Beside him, despite his usually fiery personality, Romano sang with a cool, calm determination. Each note was clear and strong, his hands steady as his own _kordevo_ cut a bloody gash on his tail.

It was pain beyond imagination, fear beyond terror. This was the first step towards land, and the most crucial, and the most difficult.

But when it all ended, when Feliciano was struggling to remain sitting upright, his blood snaking out from him where it had mixed with the water, all he could feel was ecstasy and wonder.

 _Legs_. Feliciano traced a hand up the smooth skin, examining the slender limbs, the fine hair, the strange joints and inflexibility. He had _toes_ , and he wriggled them. They felt like little hands, more mobile than his tail, but probably less powerful. In fact, they were probably very weak, and that suspicion was only confirmed as he twisted himself onto his knees, then tried carefully to stand.

And collapsed.

Romano snorted. He wasn't even trying, just sitting in the water, splayed out in all his naked glory.

"They'll send people in help us," he told Feliciano, and right on cue, a door opened on the other end of the chamber, opposite from where they had entered. A pretty young woman hurried in, her bare feet splashing in the ankle-deep water.

"Please be careful!" she called as she splashed her way to them. Her merspeech was accented and incomplete, but understandable, although Feliciano still had to fill in some incomprehensible spots. "At this stage your legs are still developing and your brain is trying to find coordination and adapt to the sudden change. You might want to sit for a moment."

And because Feliciano had been trying to stand, now forced to sit still, the young woman helped Romano first, since he had sat for a while and his brain had probably managed to adapt or whatever.

She guided Romano carefully to his feet, helping him find balance. When Romano could stand upright, she taught him how to step, then walk, and unsteadily, they made their way to the door from which the woman entered.

As he was walking—mostly being carried by the lady—Romano looked back over his shoulder at Feliciano, pouting in the water, and smirked, causing the younger brother to scowl.

 _Bastard._ He didn't even want to come.

The two disappeared out the door, leaving Feliciano fuming all by himself. He was somewhat grateful though. When he had tried—and failed—to stand, the movement had made him dizzy and disoriented, and only now was he recovering.

After a few moment of silence, the sea roaring above and around the building, the young lady hurried in again.

Like a newborn faun, Feliciano struggled and wobbled to his feet. Balancing on his two feet was a challenge, and after only standing for two minutes, his newly grown leg muscles began to ache. When he took his first step, he slipped, nearly dragging the lady down with him; but she was stronger than she looked, and together, they managed their way out the door, where Feliciano found his brother sitting on a lush couch, being measured and fitted for _clothes_.

Wondrously, Feliciano ran a hand over the nearest piece of cloth that was a pale, powdery pink. It was incredible soft, nothing like anything Feliciano had ever touched before.

"Silk," the young lady, with a steadying hand gripping Feliciano's arm, informed him. "Extremely expensive. You paid a high fee to come, but it still isn't high enough to buy silk."

In order to have clothes, people who submit a form must also pay a fee, either low, middle, middle high, or high. The brothers had paid for middle high, so apparently, silk was only for the high fee payers.

"Wow," was all Feliciano could say before he too was lowered into a chair next to Romano.

Even now, with legs and humans busying themselves with fitting the two mermen with clothes around them, Feliciano could hardly believe it.

They were going on land.

* * *

Land was better than anything Feliciano had ever imagined. There were so many stories, yet none of them could capture the simple glory of walking—still somewhat wobbly—out the Undersea Embassy and seeing the streets streaming with people, feeling the sun warming not just your face or shoulders or arms, but your entire body, and the smells, the colors, the lights! Though his newly fitted clothes chaffed against his skin and his feet already hurt in their shoes, Feliciano couldn't bring himself to pay them any attention. They were on land, looking just like humans, and the further they wandered from the Embassy, the less people turned and stared when they realized that the two strangers came from the Embassy, and therefore the sea.

By the time they were buried deep in the city, they were just two more tourists in a beautiful place by the sea and no one batted an eye in their direction.

Feliciano's hand slipped into his pocket and gripped his _kordevo_ , currently disguised as a pen (part of the magic that no one really understood). It was the last and only sign of his inhumanity.

For the first time in his life, Feliciano tilted his head west, towards the sea, and saw the waves lapping towards him, towards land. For the first time, he could see its vastness, the way it stretched towards the horizon, the way it was solid and mysterious, even intimidating. Down the beach, Feliciano watched a group of teenagers joke and shove each other around as they strolled towards the rocks. There, the caves were hidden.

There, the Beast slept.

* * *

Ludwig just wanted a vacation. He just wanted to lie under the sun of some beach and forget the fact that he had led a dozen different protests against merpeople rights. And now that that was over, he was very nearly a celebrity, albeit a rather infamous one. He had to sneak out of the house to prevent Gilbert from following him, because as much as he loved his brother, sometimes he just really needed a break.

His disguises consisted of sunglasses and a hat and a prayer that people did not recognize him on the streets. Not that he would really care if they did. Ludwig was on vacation.

But at this precise moment, Ludwig was beginning to regret coming here as he jostled his way through the crowd. For some reason, the entire city was here today, and everyone was going in a different direction.

Ludwig, personally, did not really know where he was going, only that he was hungry and he wanted to find someplace to eat, although the world seemed to be intent on stopping him from going anywhere.

He eyed the restaurants by the side of the street as he pushed against the teeming crowd. A creperie. Maybe he'd go there.

Just as he was making up his mind, a young man shoved roughly past him, his face an expression of pure panic.

"Romano!" he was shouting at the top of his lungs. "Where are you? Romano?!"

Friends separated by the crowd, probably, so Ludwig didn't pay him much attention. Rude of him to just shove everyone aside, but you can't talk reason to a panicking man.

But as the young man pushed and struggled past, Ludwig watched—almost in slow-motion, almost comically—as something shifted out of the man's pocket and fell, its escape unnoticed by its owner.

Immediately, Ludwig lunged, snatching the object from the ground.

It was an old-fashioned ink pen, heavy and firm, its cap and body made of a solid light blue stone carved with intricate patterns of feathers and waves.

For a moment, as Ludwig admired the pen, he felt as if something was bleeding into him, winding around him, like an ancient spell had been roused by his touch and now stirred in his palm.

When Ludwig finally tore his eyes away from this piece of art, the young man had successfully made progress through the crowd, so that if it wasn't for his frantically calling voice, Ludwig might not have been able to find him again. Instead, Ludwig began to push after the young man, pen in one hand, the other steering people aside to open a path for him to squeeze through.

"Hey! You!"

The young man paid him no heed, probably not realizing that Ludwig was shouting at him. He continued to call for 'Romano', occasionally switching into another language that Ludwig did not recognize.

"Hey! You in the green shirt!"

Immediately, everyone who had heard that call looked down to check if their shirts were green, the young man included. When he realized that his shirt was indeed green, he began looking around, puzzled, searching for the source of the unfamiliar voice that had singled him out.

"You!"

The young man made eye contact with Ludwig, then noticed what Ludwig waved in his hand. His eyes widened, and something that looked like panic or fear flitted momentarily across his face. He began pushing towards Ludwig, and Ludwig towards him.

"This is your pen, I presume?" Ludwig handed the young man the pen when there was no longer a mass of people between them.

"Yes," he replied breathlessly. "Thank you so much."

"It's a very beautiful pen." Ludwig allowed a small smile to show on his lips. He wasn't much of a smiler, but the young man, likely a tourist judging by his lost expression and slight accent, looked so flustered that Ludwig felt obliged to help him feel more comfortable.

"Yes, it is very important to me." The young man returned the smile, and his entire face seemed to light up. But that smile quickly dimmed, and worry clouded his eyes once more. "I am very sorry, but might you have seen a young man who looks a bit like me? I cannot find my brother."

Ludwig shook his head. It's doubtful that he would have noticed _anyone_ in this crowd. "I'm sorry."

The young man's shoulders slumped. "It is okay. I will find him." He forced another smile. "Thank you for returning my pen!"

"You're welcome."

The two parted ways, one worried and lost, the other with a small smile gracing his lips.

But as Ludwig ordered and took a seat in the also-crowded creperie and the young man drifted further away with the tide of the crowds, Ludwig felt a sharp pain on his right wrist. His food came at the moment though, so he only rolled his wrist absentmindedly, and dug in.

As he picked up his fork, however, the pain spiked again, more violently than before. Ludwig jerked, dropping his fork. Perplexed, Ludwig eyed his wrist. Surely he wasn't getting arthritis so young?

As the pain began to subside, however, Ludwig decided to continue eating his crepe, though it didn't completely disappear, throbbing from now and then. It was only when a passing waitress startled that he even realized anything was wrong.

"Sir!" she gasped, "You're bleeding!"

Sure enough, there was a smear of blood on the table, a trickle down his arm. Ludwig stared, bewildered, at the shallow cut around his wrist, as if somebody had tied a razor-sharp thread around his wrist and tightened it until it cut just past the skin.

Once again, the pain erupted as blood welled from the deepening cut. Ludwig grabbed a tissue, frantically dabbing at the wound, but for some reason, it wouldn't stop bleeding or scab over, even as some of the blood began to dry on his arm.

"Sir, are you okay?" the waitress asked. "What happened?"

"No idea," Ludwig grunted in pain. He stood, abandoning his crepe, and fled the restaurant.

It was as if there was an actual string tied around his wrist, guiding him where to go and pulling him towards a destination that his brain didn't know but somehow his feet did. The crowds began to thin as he left the city center behind, and the pain in his wrist began to ease as well, the blood flow slowing and the cut finally scabbing over.

He spotted the young man sitting by a public fountain, examining his left wrist with a puzzled expression on his face. His sleeve was bloodstained, and there was a similar red mark around his wrist as Ludwig's.

Heartbeat quickening, Ludwig hurried up to the young man, who looked up in surprise.

"Hello again!" he greeted.

Ludwig did not bother. He displayed the drying blood on his wrist, the fading red mark. "What is this?"

The young man looked from Ludwig's wrist to his own, at the matching cut. "I do not know," he said, his voice hushed and guilty, "but I think I might have a vague idea."

"Spill," Ludwig demanded, and his expression must have been truly terrifying, because the young man flinched and seemed to shrink a bit.

"I—It is tradition, very old, but I did not realize it could work on humans too, I thought…" He shook his head. "I suspect it might be this."

From his pocket, he pulled out his pen.

"This isn't actually a pen. It is a _kordevo_." He glanced up quickly at Ludwig, then lowered his gaze again. "I am a merman."

Disgust rose in Ludwig's stomach. He had helped a mermaid. He _was talking_ to a mermaid, the very creatures that he had fought against.

"And so? You cursed me because I returned your _pen_?" His voice was cold, so cold, and he didn't bother hiding his disgust.

" _Kordevo_ ," the young man corrected shakily, as if he was about to crumble against the torrent of negative emotions from Ludwig. The tall blonde, however, only felt savagely satisfied. "And no, I did not curse you. You see, in our tradition, when you propose to someone or get engaged, you exchange _kordevi_ , and then return them. There is a binding spell that keeps you together until the formal ceremony, in which you get married, and thus you are bound together spiritually. Before that, the spell of the _kordevo_ binds you physically."

 _Physically bound._ This was bad. This was so bad Ludwig couldn't imagine anything worse than this. He was bound to a _mermaid_ —

"Is there any way to break the spell?"

The young man bit his lip. "I don't know."

Then, in a rather foolishly hopeful manner, he reached out a hand towards Ludwig, smiling nervously. "My name is Feliciano."

"I don't care," Ludwig snarled. He didn't, not even when the mermaid's smile was crushed, his hand slowly lowering back to his side. "Why don't you just fuck off back to the sea where you belong?"

They both knew why though. They both knew that it was now impossible.

"Because the further away I get from you, the more painful it will become. Even chopping off your hand will not stop the pain." Feliciano spread his hands. There was nothing he could do, no song for him to weave to end this ancient spell. "Thus is the nature of the threads that bind."

* * *

 **You know, although I never actually planned to write this story, I'm quite enjoying it. It's so much easier to write than Finding Mathias. Not as much hurt and comfort and just... confusion. I like confusion. So guess I'll just keep writing this story until I find the motivation to write Finding Mathias again. Sorry to any Finding Mathias readers!**

 **Please Review!**


	4. The Services of Warlock Alfred F Jones

**Wow.** **I suck.**

 **I am actually so sorry for not updating for like, six months, but the honest truth is that _school._ **

**This is a somewhat shorter and unsatisfactory chapter, which is usually what you get when you drag on writing one chapter for half a year. I will try to be better. Speaking of which, I should really finish Finding Mathias.**

 **A quick recap of events thus far, since it's been six months and I need the refresher as much as you:**

 **\- Feliciano had discovered something strange in an underwater cave. He came on land with his brother, they got separated, and he got bound to Ludwig, who hates merpeople, by some ancient merpeople spell.**

 **\- Arthur has kicked out of Heaven for breaking some kind of law.**

 **\- Matthew was trying to get back to Hell, but could not because he lost his I.D. card. To find it, he decides to enlist the help of a warlock.**

* * *

 **Chapter Three: The Services of Warlock Alfred F. Jones**

Alfred F. Jones was a very busy warlock. His services were one of the best in the city, and with businesses booming, he did not have the time or energy to deal with drama.

"Look," he said to the couple before him, "You don't need me break you up. If you don't love each other anymore, just explain your feelings to each other, talk it out, try not to get violent, and move on! It's simple!"

"No!" one of his clients, a broad-shouldered young man with blonde hair neatly slicked back and an intense glare, shot up from his seat, slamming his large hands onto the table between them. His companion, a smaller man with auburn hair and olive skin, flinched when the abandoned chair toppled and crashed to the ground. "You don't understand, we need you to _break us apart_."

"And _as I said_ ," Alfred grounded out, "I don't have the time to help people with their romantic problems. Unless you want a love potion or maybe a hate potion, I can't help you."

"Sir," the redhead spoke for the first time since he entered Alfred's shop, "I'm a merman."

"Oh." The merpeople were a knowledgeable bunch, known to possess the deepest, darkest secrets of the world, but Alfred failed to see the pertinence of that declaration, even if he could certainly use that knowledge to his favor. "So?"

"We're not romantically involved," the merman explained in a small voice. "There was an accident and, well, now we're bound by a spell and we need you to break it."

"Oh." Now that he mentioned it, Alfred could vaguely detect a layer of complicated spells blanketing over the pair. " _Oh_." He paused. Merpeople culture was not his forte, and to be honest, he still wasn't sure what exactly he was being asked to break. "So… what kind of spell are we dealing with here?"

So the merman—Feliciano, if Alfred remembered correctly from their initial introductions—explained. As he talked, Alfred allowed his sixth sense to wander, exploring the nooks and crannies of the enchantments that threaded through and between the unseemly pair.

On the surface, it seemed like a simple binding spell, easy enough to break and something Alfred would charge a maximum of ten dollars for; but as he delved deeper, and as Feliciano also started on the complications of the ancient magic of the merpeople, Alfred realized that this was a very, _very_ special spell. One that he had never seen before, never dealt with before, which meant—

The silence that followed Feliciano's explanation was a little jarring. The warlock retracted his sixth sense to realize that his two clients were waiting expectantly for a reaction, possibly a cure.

Alfred sighed.

"I'm sorry." He shook his head. "This spell is completely new to me, and it is extremely complicated. I don't dare to meddle with it until I know more about its intricacies."

The large blonde, Ludwig (who looked vaguely familiar, for some reason), would have none of that. "It just _told_ you about the spell—,"

It had taken Alfred a second to understand that the _'it'_ that Ludwig was referring to was Feliciano, and he was suddenly disgusted by this man. Clearly anti-merpeople and making no show to hide it.

" _Feliciano_ ," Alfred stressed, "explained to me the nature of this spell, but not the pattern of its threads or its many complicated layers. I know what this spell _is_ , but I don't understand it, so I can't do anything for you at this moment."

Both Ludwig and Feliciano seemed to deflate a little at Alfred's words.

"Nothing?" Feliciano nearly begged for a desperate confirmation. "Nothing at all?"

The warlock shook his head regretfully. "I'm sorry."

Then, he paused. "Well…"

Both Feliciano and Ludwig's head snapped up hopefully, and Alfred sighed. "I might be able to get something to dull the effects of the spell a little so that you would be in less pain, and maybe— _maybe_ —allow you to be further away from each other without bleeding to death. It's not what you're looking for, but it may help."

Feliciano thanked him profusely while Alfred ignored the somewhat disgruntled and ungrateful expression on the human's face. "Wait for a moment."

Alfred headed into the backroom of the shop, where he brewed his potions and prepared his spells. Both the dulling spell and the instant healing spell were easy to do, but he still preferred to have the spell-book in hand while he was casting, just in case. Locating the books he needed, Alfred exited the room to find his two customers brooding in awkward silence, Ludwig staring stonily straight ahead while Feliciano stole furtive glances at his stormy expression.

"Hello!" Alfred called brightly, swatting away at the tension like with a swarm of flies. "If y'all don't mind, please sit a bit closer together."

Feliciano shuffled his stool closer to Ludwig, while the blond simply looked disgusted and uncomfortable and refused to move.

"Please do not make any sudden movements or try to leave during the casting of the spell. It can result in a lot of unwanted consequences." This was aimed mostly towards Ludwig, who was beginning to frown thunderously as Alfred signaled Feliciano to move even closer. Really though, the blond was just being dramatic.

The spell was cast quickly; Alfred checked the procedures once in the books before neglecting most of the steps of drawing the circle and runes and laying out the salt. He had done this enough times to know that those were just loads of bullshit—at least for simpler spells like these. For more complicated spells he was more diligent. Usually.

"Okay." Alfred clapped his hands delightedly. "You're all done. Now—"

"I don't feel any different," said Ludwig.

"You're not supposed to," answered the warlock. "If you do, that means you're probably going to combust at any moment. Now—"

"Then how do we know if your spell worked?"

At that moment, Alfred truly pitied Feliciano for getting stuck with such an unpleasant human. Honestly, of all the people to get tied to...

But they were still customers, which meant that he was obligated to treat them with something akin to respect.

"You can test it out once you've paid," Alfred suggested. "If it's no good you can come back and I'll give you a refund or something, okay?"

"Fine." Ludwig sat back on his stool, crossing his arms. "How much for the two spells?"

" _You've_ got nothing to give me." This time, Alfred could not stop some of the disdain from creeping into his voice. "I don't want money, neither do I need it. Instead, I want something from Feliciano."

The merman tensed, expression bewildered and a little bit frightened. "Y-Yes?"

"Information," the warlock declared. "Y'all merpeople know a lot of stuff, don't you?"

"We-well..."

"There is one thing I need more information on, and I expect that you'd be able to give it to me."

"But—," Feliciano looked desperate now. "What if I—What if—"

"What if he can't? " Ludwig clarified.

Finishing each other's sentences already? Alfred was impressed.

"I'm sure you'll be able to answer it. It's not a complicated riddle or anything."

Finally, hesitation visible, Feliciano nodded.

Alfred smiled. "Tell me everything you know about the Beast by the Sea.".

The merman blinked, clearly not having expected this demand. "The Beast by the Sea? It's...". He paused, and his brow furrowed suspiciously before smoothing again. "It's a song. A lullaby. We learn it as children."

"Sing it for me then."

"I—," He glanced at Ludwig then, for no apparent reason because his unwilling companion wasn't bothering to acknowledge him at all. "But it's in merspeak."

"Sing it anyway," the warlock smiled. "Please."

Alfred had never heard merspeak before, but one did not need to understand the words to feel the power. Merspeak was _old_ , older than any human tongue, old enough to rival the immortality of the Fae, though perhaps still dwarfed by the tongues of Heaven and Hell. Merspeak was created to be sung—originally underwater, but being on land did not diminish its beauty—and the songs were created to weave magic. This song, though it was a simple children's lullaby, was no different. It was a cleverly woven spell, but Alfred could sense it anyway: the threads that lit up and pulsed with each rise and fall of the merman's voice, illuminating a path towards... something. Something powerful, legendary, stirring. As Feliciano sang, Alfred scratched a quick line of runes on a spare sheet of paper, and the words accompanied by the haunting tune appeared letter by letter as they were sung, written by an invisible hand.

After the fourth stanza, the merman hesitated. "Normally we only sing four stanzas, but there is a fifth that I..."

"Sing it," said Alfred.

So Feliciano did. This final stanza had the same tune, yet something felt different. More powerful. More meaningful. Alfred would not know until he understood the words.

As the final note trailed into silence, Feliciano looked drained, as if singing this song on land had carved something vital out of him; Ludwig was stiller than a statue, his head cocked slightly to one side as if Feliciano's song puzzled him, but the confusion did not seem to stem from his inability to understand merspeak. Alfred, however, was satisfied. The spare sheet of paper in front of him was etched in words he could not read, but as long as he had the lyrics written down, translating was a breeze.

"Thank you for your help," Alfred told his two customers. "Have a nice day."

"You too," murmured Feliciano distractedly. As if in a daze, he and Ludwig drifted out the shop.

Alone, Alfred placed another spare sheet of paper over the one with the song, then crumbled a dry leaf from a snake plant onto the sheet. A few scrawled runes, and then Alfred sat back and waited for the magic to work.

For a few moments, nothing seemed to happen. Then the leaves disintegrated, the runes writhed, disappeared, and then words began to appear once more on this new sheet of paper, as if the ink from the sheet beneath it was soaking into it from below. The only difference now, was that the words were in English.

 _Magic._ Alfred sighed contentedly. He could not imagine living life without magic.

The warlock had just finished reading the translated lyrics—the final stanza warranting his special attention—when the bell on his door chimed as someone pulled it open, and into his shop stepped a demon.

Alfred F. Jones smiled. "Welcome, visitor from below. How may I help you?"

* * *

Matthew's first impression of warlock Alfred F. Jones was that the two of them looked _awfully_ similar. Perhaps the warlock's hair was a shade darker, his skin a shade tanner, his eyes a shade bluer, but when Matthew saw Jones he thought at first that he had stepped in front of a mirror.

His second impression of Jones was _loud_.

It was a special kind of loud, the type that wasn't actually loud but grated on your ears and nerves all the same. His voice was loud, true, but there was something more; it was as if his very presence, his very _being_ was loud. Alfred F. Jones _felt_ loud, and it was beginning to give Matthew a headache, even if it was somewhat unjustified, having just met the guy and all.

"You're kinda screwed, aren't you?" The warlock was grinning at him. Matthew wondered if he was always like this or if he was just in a particularly good mood today. It would be quite exhausting, being so happy all the time.

"Yes," said Matthew, his voice quiet even to his own ears compared to Alfred's confident exclamations. "My visa expires in a week, and I've lost my I.D., so I'm hoping whether or not you can—I don't know—help me get back?" He paused. "Or maybe just help me find my I.D. card."

"Of course!" At least the warlock was willing to help. "But you need to pay."

"I know."

"Good."

"So..." The awkward silence stretched, Matthew sitting baffled across a beaming Alfred. "The spell...?"

"Right!" Alfred clapped his hands together. "Your I.D. card, right? Well, you see, here is a slight problem: contrary to popular belief, tracking an object isn't that simple. Usually to track something—or someone—requires another object connected to it. For a person, it can be anything that belongs to them: a strand of hair, a shirt they like, whatever. For an object... I guess a picture of the object would work. You've got a picture of your I.D.?"

"I..." Matthew faltered. It turned out that warlock magic wasn't as efficient and all-capable as he had thought. There were limits and requirements too. "No—"

"That's tough." Alfred frowned contemplatively. "Then maybe... do you have the picture of yourself that you have on your I.D.? Or your I.D. number; do you remember it?"

Matthew shook his head, feeling desperately useless.

"Okay..." Alfred's frown deepened. "Okay, that's alright. There's still a way to do this. It's just going to be more complicated and will take a longer time." Suddenly, the frown was replaced by a grin. "And you said that you basically just need to get back to Hell?"

"Well," Matthew stammered. "Yes, but how long—"

"So that means that either I can help you track down your I.D., or I can just blast a portal into Hell and send you in?"

That would probably get both of them killed. "I don't—"

"Perfect! Don't worry, you're in good hands!"

"Thank you," Matthew said wearily. "But approximately how long will it take to track down my I.D.?"

The warlock calculated for a moment on his fingers. "A week, give or take."

"But my visa expires in a week!"

Alfred waved a dismissive hand. "You'll be fine. Meanwhile, about payment."

Matthew was _not_ going to be fine. He severely doubted that he would survive a single day with the Hunters on his trail. But despite only having met Alfred F. Jones ten minutes ago, Matthew could assume that telling the warlock that would not change anything.

The demon sighed, closing his eyes in an attempt to ward off his building headache. "Yes, payment. How much?"

"I don't want money."

Matthew's eyes snapped open. Some people might feel relieved when they were told that they didn't need to pay in money, but Matthew knew that this usually meant that payment was going to be _much_ more complicated.

"You have one week," drawled the warlock. "And I want bones."

Matthew blinked, certain that he had heard wrong. _Bones._

"Here's the catch: you can't just give me a skeleton you dug up. Each bone you give me must be from a different body, or else it will disrupt the spell."

Matthew was incredulous. What kind of spell would require _bones_? Certainly not a tracking spell.

Or so he hoped.

"Okay..." Matthew agreed slowly and reluctantly, since he didn't really have a choice. He needed Alfred's help, and so will give the warlock what he demands, even if it were _bones_. "How many do you need?"

"As many as you can get!"

Which was the exact answer that Matthew was hoping _not_ to hear.

The demon released a slow, shuddering breath. "So... you help me find my I.D., and I'll get you as many bones as I can get in one week."

"Yup!"

"Alright." No, it was not alright. Matthew needed to get _bones_ , and there was nothing alright or legal about that. _Nothing_. And also—

"What kind of bones?"

Alfred's smile widened, and though his overall demeanor remained casual, almost nonchalant, a certain darkness writhed behind those clear blue eyes and white teeth.

"Faeries'."

* * *

Arthur did not trust warlocks. For good reason too, in his opinion. They were the spawns of both demons and humans, the two species most prone to lies and deceit and crime, and the fact that they had magic made him uneasy.

Of course, warlocks were not the only species with magic—as a matter of fact, humans were practically the only species _without_ magic—but warlock magic was special in that it was very convenient. Angel magic was powerful, but specific to each angel; demon magic was the same; mer-magic only really worked when a merperson memorize some ancient verse in merspeak and sing it; faerie magic was relatively weak, limited to mostly things tied to nature, such as coaxing a flower to bloom or listening to gossip in the wind.

Warlock magic, on the other hand, had no such limits. It can be carved runes or chanted spells or special potions, basically anything one would think of when someone says 'witch'. Sure, they may require certain things to accomplish a certain feat of magic, but there was simply no limits to _what_ warlock magic could do, and maybe it was jealousy of their abilities, maybe it was prejudice against their birth, but either way Arthur didn't like it.

Although their usefulness was undeniable.

Alfred F. Jones fit Arthur's prejudiced views almost perfectly in the sense that Arthur severely disliked the warlock. At first glance Jones seemed perfectly cheerful—though he wasn't very good at being respectful to his customers—but as the conversation worn on, it became clear that he was much more than the loud and obnoxious façade.

"Give me a week. Maybe two," said Alfred. "In the meantime, you can get me some vampire tears."

A strange request, from a strange character. Arthur gave a curt nod.

"You're sure that it'll work?"

The warlock laughed. "I said a spell that can open all doors." His smile was sharp, dangerous, daring. "I don't see how the Gates of Heaven should be any different."

* * *

 **Please Review!**


	5. Faerie, Vampire, Hunter

**Hello, all!**

 **Sorry for another more-than-half-a-year, haha...**

 **On the other hand, this is a slightly longer chapter. Hope you guys like it! Now that our whole cast had made some kind of appearance, expect drama! Thank you for reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter Four: Faerie, Vampire, Hunter**

In Faerieland, the mourning color is black.

This may seem like the logical, obvious color—such is the way of thinking for close-minded humans—but that is not the case for all creatures. Merpeople and angels mourn in white, demons in dark, blood red, werewolves in silver or gray, and warlocks in blue. Vampires do not mourn for deaths.

If one was to enter Faerieland these days, all one would be able to see was black. Usually this was the land of forever-edge-of-spring-and-winter, of beauty tangled with death, of truths spun into riddles that sounded like lies; but now, all was left was winter.

The trees were barren of leaves, the ground of blooms; everything was covered in a thin layer of frost and snow drifted continuously even though Faerieland was underground. The glittering, spiraling towers of the Faerie palace had become spun from ice, cold and fragile, for the state of Faerieland reflected the mind and spirit of the Queen.

She sat on her throne of ice in a gown sewn from crow feathers and rotten leaves, beaded with raw, crystallized fish eyes. Her light brown hair was threaded with black pearls, and chips of obsidian hung from her delicately pointed ears and slender neck. Her eyes, the color of a midsummer leaf, were lined with kohl and her lips were the color of a bruise.

On her right stood another faerie, his dark clothes hidden in the shadows of a black cloak draped across his slender shoulders. Unlike the vibrant queen, he fit the background of ice perfectly, with a beautiful face carved from winter and pressed from snow.

On her left floated a troll. It was spring green all over, with billowing hair and beard and a powerful body that ended at the torso. It did not have legs, so it floated.

"Give me the number again, Lukas," murmured the Queen, her violet lips barely moving. She sounded drained from weariness or the mourning winter.

"Five bodies in three days," the faerie on her right reported. His voice was also wintrous, but not sharp or biting; more like a winter breeze: cold, but not harsh. "The victims seemed to be chosen at random, their times of death also, the only common characteristic being that each of them are missing one bone—chosen very possibly at random as well—with two finger bones, one toe, one femur, and one rib."

The Queen hummed. She had heard this information nearly a dozen times already, and the only conclusion she could come to was: there was a killer in Faerieland, and they are so far completely lost from his trail. How many more faeries would have to be killed before they caught a whiff of the murderer?

"Bones..." she mused. "Why bones?"

Faerie bones were practically impossible to get. Faeries do not bury their dead because their bodies usually disintegrate into flowers or vines or a flock of butterflies after twenty-four hours. Nothing is left to bury, so there is no point. Bones would have to be extracted while the faerie was still alive—living bones, not dead ones.

So why one bone from each body? Was that all the killer could take before the faerie died and the rest of the skeleton became destined to return to nature? Are they some kind of trophy from the killings? Some mark of the killer?

The troll made a low, grunting-growling noise. Lukas closed his eyes. To listen, to see. This was the Gatekeeper, whose ears run with the wind and eyes guard each door.

"I think," he said quietly, "we may be looking for a demon."

* * *

Ludwig really needed to stop finding and picking things up. One would think that after getting _cursed_ for returning a fucking pen to a mermaid, he would learn to ignore things on the ground that didn't belong to him, but _no_ , because an I.D. card is not a pen, so it was totally alright to pick up.

It was a strange I.D. card, probably foreign; Ludwig had never seen anything like it before. For one, it was shaped like a pentagon. For another, it was in a language he was relatively sure did not exist in this world, the script sharp and vicious and dark. Instead of an I.D. picture, what looked like fingerprints were located at each of the corners of the pentagon.

This was probably when Ludwig should have dropped the card, wiped his mind, and carried on with his life, but at that moment, Feliciano appeared.

Of course, the mermaid was never far—the curse made sure of that. But Ludwig had business to do, places to be, and so the most he could do was keep Feliciano a healthy distance away, tugging it all around the city by that invisible string tied around their wrists. The creature, to its credit, did not seem to mind too much. It was curious about everything, though every time it tried to ask a question, Ludwig sent it a glare strong enough to kill little animals. It was strangely satisfying to see Feliciano wilt and tremble under his gaze. At least the mermaids had enough sense to know that while the sea was their realm, they were unwelcomed guests on land.

Though, as creatures go, Feliciano was definitely a strange sort. He had the aura of a timid child forever hoping for a treat, and he might have been endearing if he wasn't such an annoying _mermaid_.

"Merman," Feliciano corrected. "I'm male."

Ludwig glared.

Feliciano cowered. Tears welled up in his eyes.

With an annoyed huff, Ludwig turned and marched away, unconsciously pocketing the I.D. card he still held in his hand, violently crushing down the stirring guilt in his gut with each heavy stomp.

Because mermaids are not humans; they are monsters, undeserving of guilt, preying on the weak and vulnerable, building their underwater society on the bones of creatures that needed air. They are savages rendered beautifully mysterious by fairy tales and myths, not—

Not gushing over kittens on the streets and fawning over flowers and obsessing over fancy cuisines.

Not chatting animatedly to old ladies in the grocery or joining in games of tag with children in the park or climbing trees or making sure the door and windows were closed before weeping quietly for his brother.

No, not at all.

* * *

Vampires.

Arthur did not dislike vampires. There was the common misconception that angels hated vampires because they were 'fallen' creatures, infected by a postmortem disease, unable to see the light or utter the name of God, and maybe there truly were angels who scorned this undead species, but Arthur was not one of them.

Arthur pitied vampires. They were tragic existences, cursed to an immortality of darkness and killing. People think that vampires are bloodthirsty monsters, but the truly bloodthirsty vampires, the ones that go around feeding unnecessarily and terrorizing others, were usually quickly hunted down by the Hunters. Left behind were the vampires who waited in line next to hospitals for bags of dead blood, who sang ancient, forgotten lullabies as dawn broke, who singed their fingertips reaching for the first rays of the sun.

Arthur knew all this, sympathized with the creatures who lived in cages of night, as he had lived in a cage of gold, whom people stared or frighted at the sight of them, as he had been gawked at and pointed at before. He knew all this, yet it made it no less frightening when he met one face to face.

Vampires were beautiful. They were beautiful in a way that was alarming, so beautiful that you could not look away, mesmerized by the flawless skin, the strangely bright eyes, the sensual lips and delicate slant of the nose, the elegant sweep of hair. The more you looked, the more beautiful they seemed, and the more beautiful, the more terrifying.

Arthur had no limited experience with beauty. He lived in _Heaven_ , for God's sake; he was surrounded by dazzling beauty nearly his entire life.

But the beauty of vampires was different.

In Heaven, both the sun and the moon hung in the sky, forever rotating around each other, never day and never night.

On Earth, Arthur experienced darkness for the first time, and it had frightened him when he just arrived, that bleak blindness when the sun was gone and there was only the feeble glow of his sister.

But looking at this vampire, his face pale as the moon, his hair golden as the sun, eyes bluer and sadder than the sky, he realized that the night can be beautiful too.

True beauty, after all, is quite alarming.

This vampire watched him from beside a lamppost, standing just outside the circle of light. Arthur sat on a bench not too far away, watching the vampire as he watched him, wondering how in the world he was going to get vampire _tears_ of all things. Did vampires even cry? Did they weep blood, since that's all they drink? Arthur felt like he was charging into this blind, but he only realized that maybe he should have done a bit of research when he blinked, and the vampire had disappeared from his sight.

Arthur's heartbeat quickened, thundered. His eyes flickered from the lamppost, to the shadows beyond it, to the empty space behind himself, to—

"Hello."

Arthur's breath stuttered, choked. The vampire's breath was icy cold on his cheek, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He was staring straight into the deep blue eyes of the vampire, noses nearly brushing. Only at this distance did he notice that every time the vampire blinked, his eyes flashed red, and that his colorless lips were cracked and dry and seeping blood.

But when the vampire pressed cold lips against his, the only thought in his head was: _he should have done research_.

Because the point of a vampire's beauty was to paralyze the prey, and in this world, so far from Heaven, Arthur was powerless. He had no wings, no magic, he might as well be human. Sometimes, when he forgot the gaping hole inside him, he felt like he _was_.

A fang pricked his lip, and he felt blood, hot, burning, bead against his trembling skin. Trembling, weak, powerless. Human.

Except he wasn't human. He never would be. Not when the blood inside him ran gold.

The vampire hissed in surprise, rearing back. His eyes glowed red, a monster's growl rising in his throat. A spot on his lips was burnt angry red, the blemish standing stark on his perfect features.

" _Tu_ —You are not human." The words were laced with a strong accent, but Arthur did not have enough experience with human diversity to recognize it.

"No," replied Arthur, as calmly as he could with a vampire baring his fangs at him. "I'm not."

"What are you then?" The vampire sniffed as the burnt spot on his lip faded into pale pink. "You smell like smoke and honey. And metal. Human blood."

Arthur forced his numb fingers to move, and then pulled out a small bottle from his pocket. "You must have smelled this."

Cautiously, the vampire took the bottle and unscrewed it, sniffing at the contents. Then, he put the bottle to his lips and drank, deeply and desperately.

Arthur smiled. Smiled wider as the vampire tilted his head back to drain the dregs of the blood Arthur had gotten from the hospital. Was practically grinning like an idiot or a madman (or both) by the time the vampire exhaled contentedly and set the bottle next to him on the bench, licking a final dark drop of blood from his corner of his lips, and noticed Arthur staring at him, smiling strangely.

"What?" asked the vampire, a smug smile crawling up that beautiful face. "Did you think that putting pepper in the blood would kill me or something?"

Arthur blinked, his smile slipping. "Erm, no."

"Then why did you put the pepper in the blood?"

The smile collapsed. "Um..."

"It is a little bit suspicious, you know?" The vampire replaced the cap on the bottle and handed it back to a semi-sheepish Arthur. "It is like you are up to no good: you sit there like you are waiting for me to bite you, but I cannot, and then you give me blood, which is good, but it has pepper in it. _Monsieur_ , you baffle me. What do you want to do, make me sneeze?"

 _Yes_ , answered Arthur mentally. Tears spring into your eyes when you sneeze violently enough, right? Though he didn't think it was good to say that out loud. Good for his dignity, that was. Now that the vampire voiced it—or implied it, at least—it felt like the most ridiculous idea ever.

"I—no." Arthur shook his head, more to convince himself than the vampire. His ears tinged pink. "It's just... never mind."

"Suspicious." The vampire's eyes narrowed, his smile widened teasingly. He leaned close and sniffed at Arthur once more. "I sense a scheme. Very suspicious indeed."

Arthur flushed. For some reason, he suddenly wished that he had at least taken a shower before coming out here—although not all of his embarrassment came from being sniffed at. "Can you just drop it?!"

His voice came out a little too high-pitched for his liking, and the vampire chuckled, deep and slightly mocking. But when Arthur glared, the vampire raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, since you gave me blood—albeit blood with pepper in it—I will drop it. No harm done, no?"

"Thank you." Arthur clutched at the shreds of his dignity—the dignity that he shredded himself, the vampire really not having done much, though that was not going to stop Arthur from blaming the creature for his embarrassment—despite his flaming face. He stuck out a hand, because, well, what else could he do at that moment? "My name is Arthur."

"Arthur." The vampire repeated, his lips twisting like the name tasted funny. He could not pronounce the 'th' very well, and the name sounded throatier when the vampire spoke it. "I am Francis Bonnefoy."

Francis ignored Arthur's outstretched hand. Instead, he reached up, and pressed his freezing palm against Arthur's burning face.

"So warm," he murmured. "Like the sun." His other hand came up to cup Arthur's face in his icy fingers, gently tugging him closer. The vampire's voice was as silky and rich as the thick waves of golden curls falling to his shoulders. "You still smell like it: like fire and honey and metal. What are you?"

"I..." He could smell the blood lingering in Francis' breath. They were close, so close. Too close.

Arthur started and jerked back, out of Francis' grasp and pushing him away. And then he flushed, more violently than before.

"Can you not?!" he exclaimed.

Francis grinned. "Ah, but _mon chéri_ , you were enjoying it so much."

"I was not!"

"Oh là." Francis laughed slightly. "Feisty."

"Stop!"

Francis flicked golden curls over his shoulder. "Sure, I will stop. But only after you answer my question: What are you?"

Arthur scowled. "I would have answered if you hadn't been trying to molest me. You're going to Hell for that, by the way. Molesting an angel is an unforgivable sin."

Francis did not appear concerned at all for committing an 'unforgivable sin'. He was, however, quite fascinated.

"An angel! How rare."

Arthur smiled bitterly. "Surprise."

" _Non_ , not a surprise." This time, when Francis smiled, it was a vague echo of Arthur's. There was a certain bitterness, a certain longing, a certain sadness. "I should have known; you have the eyes of an angel."

Arthur narrowed those eyes at him. "You're doing it again."

"But it is true." The vampire tilted his head, as if trying to find the best angle to peer into Arthur's soul. "Green as Heaven."

"Heaven isn't green." Well, there were certain things that were green, obviously, but usually when people mentioned 'Heaven', the first color to pop into mind was rarely green. "And you've never seen Heaven before."

"Everyone has a different Heaven," answered Francis. "Perhaps the real Heaven, and your Heaven, is not green, but mine is." He released a small huff of a chuckle. "And perhaps a bit of blue, too."

 _Blue_. Arthur peered back at Francis, into his eyes. Those blue, blue eyes, blue as a reflection of the sky on the calm surface of a sea of tears.

* * *

It was not a pretty sight.

Then again, murder scenes were rarely pretty. This one was just particularly gruesome.

"An entire family," Tino reported. He, too, was dressed in black, and there were shadows under his eyes from overwork. He was also looking a little green as he lead Lukas into the house—he had never dealt well with blood.

The blood that rippled as Lukas stepped into it, because there was simply nowhere else to step. The home was flooded, and the walls were stained and smeared with crimson.

Crimson, the color of the blood for all creatures save for those who dwell in Heaven and Hell.

"The killer is getting bolder," murmured Lukas, more to himself than to his nauseous companion. He regarded the three bodies hanging from the ceiling of the house knitted from branches and leaves—if they could still be called bodies.

It looked like some kind of elaborate dissection: the bodies were drained of blood, with slits on their wrists and their heads gone. Yet the killer had not stopped with taking the skulls this time. Whether it was a sadistic joke or for some curious, unknown purpose, the killer had cut open what was left of the bodies and pulled out the rest of the skeletons. Each set of bones were laid neatly out on their beds, save for the skulls. Where the heads should be, there were no skulls, but faces and scalps, skin and flesh stripped off the bone and arranged on pillows stuffed with dried petals.

Nothing taken save the skulls, but the murder was intricate, almost playful, unlike the hasty slaughters and extractions in the past.

"Is this possibly a message?" Tino suggested.

"Possibly." Lukas turned away from the bodies hanging like swine carcasses on hooks in human abattoirs. "Have the bodies collected and examined before the Return. I expect a report by this evening."

The two Faeries tracked bloody footsteps out the house. The front lawn was already dark with blood from all the investigators that had already been in and out.

A ghost of a thought, and a sudden warm breeze rose from the ground, accompanied by a low, gentle rumble as the green troll appeared. It floated above the bloody footprints, its crude face turned towards the blood-scent wafting from the house. It had no distinct expression, but something about it turned graver, sadder.

"Can you sense anything?" Lukas asked the ethereal creature.

The troll did not answer immediately, scrutinizing the scene with its iris-less, pupil-less green eyes before responding in low growls and grunts that somehow Lukas understood.

"I see."

"Um..." But of course, let us not forget about the other Faerie present, Tino. "What did he say?"

"He said that it's definitely the same killer, the same demon. The death mark is the same."

"But we already know that!"

"A confirmation is never unhelpful," was Lukas' icy answer, before continuing, "The one difference is that the killer's attitude had changed. Before, the killer was unwilling. Now, he or she is enjoying the act."

Tino pursed his lips, both out of disappointment and mild disgust. "I suppose."

"I think..." another low growl, a subtle nod from Lukas. "I think we can expect to find more bodies tomorrow."

Tino's eyes widened, his mouth opened, questions bursting on his tongue, but Lukas had already taken a seat on the troll's outstretched palm. "Take me to the Queen," he told the troll. "I believe it is time to call in some reinforcements." His lips twisted. "Unpleasant though humans may be."

And with a warm breeze that seemed to suck the breath out of the surroundings, another low rumble, and both the troll and the Gatekeeper were gone.

* * *

Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo needed a break. Overwork was not part of the job description. In fact, he was pretty sure he was promised a siesta a day.

Although it had been Gilbert who had promised him that, and while Gilbert was a very good friend, he was not the least bit honest, which put into doubt just how good a friend he was.

 _It'll be fun,_ they say. _You'll be a hero,_ they say.

But he was nothing more than a killer. Revered and respected by humans, yes, but feared and hated by all other creatures. A Hunter, yes, but no hero. There was no glory in murder outside of war.

But there was no stopping. To be a Hunter is to join the hunt forever or to be hunted—not necessarily by other Hunters, but creatures other than humans had the uncanny ability of sensing the blood on stained hands. If the stories were true, then vampires and werewolves smell murder, angels see it, demons taste it, and mermaids hear it, as if a small piece of each kill clung onto the hands, rotting and screaming.

These were the thoughts that Antonio struggled to push into the back of his mind, that floated up as he read through the short message a second time.

It was a message that all Hunters around the world would have received, and the content was concise, straight-forward, brutal.

A simple portrait of what appeared to be a young man with wavy, light blonde hair and violet eyes, ' **TARGET** ' large and bold above the picture.

 **Name:** Matthew Williams

 **Species:** Demon

 **Breach:** Expired visa

 **Notes:** Find and return to Otherworld Embassy as soon as possible, dead or alive.

Nothing more.

 _Dead or alive._ Knowing the characters of most of his colleagues—Gilbert... not exactly excluded—the demon would probably end up dead. Antonio examined the picture. Matthew Williams did not look like a demon. He did not have horns, or fangs, or snake eyes. He even had five fingers, just like a human. The poor kid probably just forgot his deadline.

"We have arrived." The faerie spoke like winter, matching his cold beauty. Faerie beauty was not mesmerizing like vampires', but it was offsetting nonetheless. Perhaps it was the resemblance that was not-at-all-resemblance to humans. The delicately pointed ears and eyes, the elegant curves and lines of their bodies: faeries were unsettling and confusing, immortal yet inconstant, forever honest, yet never truly so.

This faerie—the Gatekeeper—was no different, though his passiveness and blatant disdain towards Antonio—and humans in general—irked the Hunter more than a little bit.

"I realize that the human custom is to shake the other's hands," the Gatekeeper had said upon their meeting, "But I would prefer if we avoid that. I would like to keep my hands clean, thank you."

But Antonio refrained from replying sarcastically, even to outright insults. Not necessarily out of courtesy or fear—because technically speaking, Antonio was legally allowed to commit murder, though he'd be lying if he said that that troll floating to his left did not freak him out _just_ a little bit—or even due to Antonio's naturally sunny personality, though that was perhaps five percent of it, but because Antonio was curious.

Because who wouldn't be fascinated by a chain of murders?

And so Antonio pocketed his cell phone—the connection was failing as they entered the Faerie realm underground anyway—and followed the Gatekeeper into Faerieland. This time, hopefully, not to commit a murder, but to prevent more murders from being committed.

Though, if he was honest to himself, he would probably have to commit murder to prevent the murders. He was, after all, a Hunter.

A glorified murderer.

* * *

 **Please Review!**


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